


The Dior Trilogy

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: There is a number of small things [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dior - Freeform, Drinking, Excessive Drinking, Fighting, M/M, New York Fashion Week, OLD SCHOOL!, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Sexual Tension, Slytherins Being Slytherins, The Dior Trilogy, The Museum of Natural History
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco was always Dior's bitch boy, he just didn't realize it back then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep has his house Pt.1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unkissed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/gifts).



> The Dior Trilogy is three parts, originally penned in February, March, and June of 2011. These were written for Unkissed and have been lost to me until a chance Google search brought them back to me. Obviously the history of Draco and Theodore as we know them now are much different here, but the intent remains the same. I have no proper words to express how much it means to me to have these pieces back in my life, as they represent a time that was very special to me and to Draco. 
> 
> For Theodore, the keeper of Draco's heart and soul.

 

 

Sometimes my lack of self-control astounds me. I’m lying here, in this tangle of designer bed sheets, trying my damnedest   to figure exactly how this happened. From my position near the end of the bed I can see discarded clothing everywhere. Literally. My entire  _being_  is my clothing; how I manage to care so little about them at times baffles me. My stomach lurches at the sight of my Paul Smith shirt hanging off the lampshade; how the bloody hell did that even get there? I press the pads of my fingertips into my eyelids and sigh dramatically, mind wandering over the events from the night before. 

 

Champagne..Models..Designers..Gift bags..After parties..A bit more champagne..The Museum of Natural History?..Dior..The-

 

DIOR!

 

I sat straight up in bed as realization slapped me in the face, silver eyes moving around the vacant penthouse with a frown. 

 

This was his fault.

 

**8pm; the night before**

 

He’d been pestering me since we left London, dropping hints here and there about things  _he_  wanted to do; as if this was a leisurely vacation. I shut him down every single time but the last; something about the way his mouth curved down just so somehow cracked my reserve. It was settled. After the 9pm Narciso Rodriguez show I would accompany him on his excursion. I think he was determined to soak a little culture in me.. Or something. The moment he stepped off the lift into the lobby I knew he was up to something, I could see it in his eyes, the hint of mischief dancing in his dark orbs. He knew I would notice, that’s why he was wearing them—Two gleaming cufflinks that signaled my eventual undoing. 

 

He was playing hardball, and doing in Dior.

 

I couldn’t help but tease him about our destination, The Museum of Natural History, really? I followed him around with an amused smirk, handed one cocktail after another while deafening beats swelled around us. I was completely out of my element but I wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of seeing it. I went with it, my smirk and me expertly dismissing one display after another.

 

“I know what you’re up to.”

 

I had leaned close enough to murmur the words in his ear, watching him as I spoke. I recognized the warmth of intoxication on my neck and as the faint scent of his cologne wrapped itself around my senses I faltered for the first time in a very long time. Something about the alcohol or the music or the lack of proper lighting was causing this stirring in me; I don’t possess feelings, certainly not ones like these.   My gaze caught his and I knew he felt it too, realization seemed to wash over him and he smiled a little too innocently, moving along through the crowd leaving me trailing behind. I needed a handle on this situation. I am Draco Malfoy; I don’t easily relinquish my control. 

 

A while later I found myself near the bar, my drink nearly spent and the dull thud of music making it impossible to think straight. He was trying to talk me into dancing, I don’t dance; he knows this.  Every time his fingers curl around my lapel I want to scream. I can feel his fingernails on my chest through my shirt like he’s doing it on purpose; he’s relentless and obviously trying to take advantage of my Mai Tai soaked thoughts. It’s near boiling point in the room and as I reach up to brush a few strands of silken hair from my brow something catches my eye. I watch the tiny circular light dance on the wall and across the faces of nameless people before I realize that the reflection is those god damned Dior cufflinks.

 

“Lets go.”

 

I say, not bothering to wait for a response as I turn heel and remove myself from the building as quick as possible. The cold night air hits me like the Hogwarts Express and I gasp slightly, not stopping until I’m half a block down the street. I can hear him behind me, calling after me and wondering if I’ve gone mad.  I ignore him and keep on, a hand on my forearm finally bringing me to a stop. He asks me what’s wrong, so innocent the bat of his lashes, the slight curve of his mouth.  I have a distinct feeling he knows exactly what he’s doing.   I call him a bastard and ask him if he thinks this is funny. He looks at me questioningly and says he doesn’t know what I mean, but I know the truth.  Suddenly it seems like a very good idea to punch him in the mouth and I do, catching him completely off guard and sending him tumbling on his arse. I smirk down my nose at him; that will teach him to fuck with me. There is a brief moment of triumph before he is scrambling to his feet, and as he lunges at me I have a solitary thought.

 

This isn’t going to end well for my suit.

 

He’s on me now, a fist curled into the front of my jacket, eyes on fire and blood on his lips. I laugh and call him ridiculous; in return he shoves me against the side of a building. How fitting that such physicality would take place in the concrete jungle. He calls me an asshole, I shrug and tell him I can’t argue with that.  I watch as he contemplates his next course of action, amused by his predicament.

 

“Get on with it.”

I drawl, fixing him with a smug expression that causes his face to screw up in anger. I can feel his fists tightening on my jacket and bits of my shirt that are caught in there as well, he looks like he’s about to tell me he hates me; it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that.   One of his hands releases me and I know its coming.  He calls me an asshole again and then does the one thing I never saw coming..

 


	2. Sleep has his house Pt2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N from the original posting:
> 
> [Authors wee note 2.0: Yes, I do love torturing you. ;P]

 

I’m standing there, still plastered against the side of a building, staring after him as he walks away, mouth slightly gaping at the finality of his actions.  I am shocked by his retreat, yet another sensation that is rarely part of my routine. I consider going after him, perhaps catching up to him and shaking some sense into that thick head of his but I don’t, instead I turn away, brushing off my suit as I head off in the opposite direction. 

Somehow I feel cheated.

I take my time returning to the hotel, New York is one of my favorite destinations, and not merely because of fashion week.  When I do finally make it back my cheeks are flushed bright red and my thoughts are considerably clearer, yet I’m still somehow obsessing over the events from earlier.  I nod a firm greeting to the doorman as I pass, the sting on my knuckles pulling a slight smirk from me as I board the lift and head back up to the top.  The image of him with blood on his mouth is not one I’ll soon forget.  Somehow I’m not surprised to find him waiting for me when I step off the lift, my fists instinctively curling as I draw nearer to him.  I ask him what he’s doing here—Perhaps he hasn’t had enough?  

He doesn’t respond at first, instead he fixes me with an intense stare. I shrug it off and head for my door, mildly amused with the situation.  When my fingers curl around the door handle he finally speaks, breaking his silence to inform me that he’s come for retribution.  I turn and laugh in his face, neatly informing him that there is no reward for idiocy.

I really do enjoy pushing his buttons.

In a moment he’s on me and I can’t help but chuckle at the sense of déjà vu.

“If you’re going to hit me mind the face, I have publicity photos in the morning.”

I quirk a brow at him and offer him an expression that clearly says “Yes, I am dead serious,” which only seems to aggravate him further.   He shoves my back against the door to my penthouse and I let him, already bored with this game. I open my mouth to tell him just that but he tells me to shut up. His fingers are curling into my lapel again only this time he’s impossibly close, I can feel his breath on my neck and despite my best efforts I can feel the flush on my cheeks. He’s conflicted again; I can read it in his eyes.

“You really are shit at this.”

I mutter lazily, releasing an exasperated huff before snaking my cold fingers around the back of his neck. Before he can protest I close what little distance there is between us, the jolt of months of sexual tension violently coming to a head with just one kiss. In seconds his hands are all over me, groping me with sloppy abandon that I don’t entirely mind. My fingers slide around his neck to clutch at his throat, possessively holding onto him as our mouths reconnect again and again. In one swift movement I switch positions with him, now it’s his turn to be manhandled.  I slide the plastic card key through the slot on the door without even looking, breaking away from him and shoving him through the door as it falls open. 

“Is that what you wanted?”

I ask, stepping into the room after him and fixing him with a look that demands an answer.  “Not quite,” he replies, closing the gap between us and once again shoving me against the back of the door.  His fingers curl into my lapel, which I’m certain by now will have permanent marks from his fingernails.

“You don’t have the balls.”

I drawl, smirking down my nose at him and daring him to prove me wrong.  His eyes are on fire with a heat I can almost feel and as his knee moves to part my own, I release a slightly surprised gasp. His movement doesn’t stop and before I can protest his knee makes contact with my groin, the pain forcing me to fall forward against him as stars pop out in front of my eyes.  “Now, neither do you.” He replies with a smug grin, pressing a fingertip into the indent beneath my chin and forcing my face upwards.  If I wasn’t in such agony I would curse him, instead I grunt a “fuck you” through gritted teeth.   

I can feel his fingers curling around my throat, mirroring my movements from only moments before. He forces me roughly back up against the door, the renewed contact his knee makes with my tender bits sending fresh waves of pain through me.  He leans forward, the friction against me is agonizing but I try my best not to let it show. Too much.  

He’s muttering in my ear, something about what a pompous arse I am; I can’t hear him too clearly.  In an instant his mouth closes over mine again, this time it’s him who is in control, who’s calling all the shots.

Clearly I’m not protesting.

The next few moments are somewhat of a blur; one moment he’s nipping at my bottom lip, the next his fingers are un-knotting my tie and carelessly tossing it aside. I feel like my mind is about to explode, there simply isn’t enough room in my head for so much pain mingled with pleasure.  His hands are suddenly all over me and somewhere along the way his knee has abandoned its post firmly wedged in my trousers.  I pull back long enough to gasp for air, and as my fingers nimbly work the buttons of his shirt I can’t help but marvel at his ability to break me down for the second time in one night.  He all but rips my Paul Smith shirt off of me and as it haphazardly lands atop the lampshade my mouth twists into a frown.

He’s going to pay for that.


	3. Sleep has his house Pt3

I am not in control.

 

I think I realized it the moment my Paul Smith was so viciously massacred, the fire in his eyes, the intensity of his grasp; I’d say I was surprised, but I’d be lying. 

 

I always knew he had it in him, every now and then I was given a taste, a glimpse of the animal inside that rarely escaped. I think I enjoyed pushing his buttons the most for this specific reason, to see how far he would bend until he broke.

 

This is what I do, what I’ve always done, and I do it well. Better than most people perhaps give me credit for. It’s funny to me how much time can pass you by when you are busy trying to orchestrate an existence. I’d watched him do exactly that for so many years, so many moments peppered into that existence; tiny memories in the back of my mind. Little glimpses that had all been leading up to this very moment where he would stop thinking and just..live. 

 

I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting, because make no mistake; I  _have_  been waiting. 

 

I suppose some people are more stubborn than others. It is only because of whom we are that I relinquish control to him now; because whether he knows it now or not, he’s always been controlling me in one aspect or another.

 

His fingers grip my arms with a force I can see resonating on his face and I can’t help but smirk, as I am forcibly dragged across the room. He pauses at the foot of the bed and I am certain by the pain on my arms that his knuckles are white with anger.

 

I’m smirking again, and just waiting, this is after all, his moment. He’s facing me, eyes alive in a way that I rarely have the privilege of witnessing; I am tempted to speak, but bite my tongue instead.  

 

His grip on me lessens, fingers trailing over my shoulders, the small whitish scars on my chest; my abdomen. It isn’t the first time he’s seen me like this but I can tell this time he’s making it count, and I yield. My head drops slightly, the flesh on my arms tingling with goose pimples. 

 

I won’t deny that I need his pain, but fucking hell these brief moments of tenderness hold a certain temptation as well. A small sigh escapes me and I shake with a chill that touches my spine.

 

A gentler touch is on my trousers, carefully releasing the catch as warm fingertips slide inside. My eyes fall shut and I remain, the ache in my chest mirrored by the heat pooling in my stomach.  He leans and I expect teeth, but he gives me his mouth instead. It’s surprisingly soft against my bare skin and I sigh; my eyes slide closed and again, I yield.  

I have never been this bare for anyone and I can’t help but wonder if he even realizes it; if he will ever figure out my game. Maybe he’s known all along, he always had a way of knowing me better than I know myself. 

 

My fingers curl in on themselves and then reach out, patiently working the buttons of his shirt and sliding it off. His mouth never leaves me, marking me in so many different ways that I am certain I will be one continuing bruise by morning. 

 

Fingers are at my chest, forcing me down and I fall; unceremoniously atop the bed. My head lolls against my shoulder and I watch as he steps out of his trousers, so determined to do this his way. And I yield.

 

He’s on the bed now, holding me down and sucking away my last breaths. It’s frantic and maddening my body aches every time he touches it. I can hardly stand it, the way his chest slides against mine, or the pierce of his hipbone against my own. It’s a constant battle of pleasure and pain that is so painfully us that I might laugh about it later. 

 

He tells me he hates me through grit teeth, and by the way his body rolls against mine, I sort of believe him. The same teeth tear at my flesh in such a way that I am forced to think of nothing but him and this moment.

 

I tell him I hate him too, is that what he wants to hear?

 

I bite down on his shoulder and he gasps, his body making purchase with mine in all the right ways.   His touch is everywhere and I can’t concentrate, the alcohol in my system has nothing on what he doing to me; and I yield.

 

In the end I manage a stifled cry against his throat, my head is swimming and my vision dances somewhere between blurred and black. He’s heaving against me and I blink, trying desperately to bring his face into focus. I had made watching his ever-changing expressions one of my routines and yet somehow I had managed to miss the most important one of all. 

_Perhaps next time_  I think as his mouth closes over mine, the pace is slower and still impossibly demanding. Bed sheets twist in my grasp and he’s draining me of oxygen, and I fucking yield.  

 

In the end he falls against the pillows and I remain, half dangling off the end of the bed, both of us succumbing to alcohols cruel numbing blackness. My last fleeting thoughts are of his mouth on my skin..

 

The next time my eyes slide open everything is pounding and as I lay there I try and piece together what has happened. I see my shirt, taunting me from the lampshade and I’m drawing a blank.

Where the fuck was I? 

My mind attempts to retrace my footsteps from the night before, a solitary thought springing to mind above all the others..

 

**DIOR!**

 

I sit straight up as the events from a few hours before come rushing back and I frown, eyes scanning the vacant penthouse. I pause for a moment before slowly turning, casting a glance over my shoulder. A smirk slides across my mouth as I see him there, curled into the pillow, chest rising and falling rhythmically with sleeps embrace.  

 

Carefully I shift, crawling up behind him, leaning close enough to cast a breath against his throat.

 

“My turn.” I murmur against salty skin, teeth scoring the flesh as I roll him over to face me.

 

Now it’s his turn to yield..

**Author's Note:**

> There was a note on the original posting of this that the idea of the MoNH was Unkissed's idea, that still stands. ;)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In The Closet With Theodore Nott: From the Live Journal Vaults](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800506) by [unkissed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed)




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